Not that Cuthbert had had much choice. The commander in chief of British forces in Hong Kong, Major General Horace Grant, rarely accepted a lunch appointment anywhere else. There was a rumor that his wife had ordered him to boycott the Jackson Room because of the ban on women.
Cuthbert was early, knowing the “Chief” would be on time. Without needing to ask for one, the diplomat had been allocated a table by the window and was shown to a seat by the maître d’. From the seat he faced the room. He knew that the chief would sit next to him, in the other seat next to the window, also facing the room.
The political adviser confessed to himself that he was a touch nervous. Grant was not a man to be persuaded into or out of any kind of decision. Nor was he someone who gave a damn for Cuthbert’s position, reputation or erudition. He came himself from Northern Irish army stock. Contempt for diplomats was a family
tradition. A Grant had lost his life along with most of his regiment 150 years ago in some interminable Kabul siege that was supposed to be the fault of the Foreign Office at the time. The Proestant Northern Irish were almost Chinese in their ability to hold historical grudges. One card that Cuthbert had to play, though, mightip the balance. For once it was the diplomat who was asking for action.
The chief appeared at the door in the company of the maὶtre d’ and, seeing Cuthbert, strode briskly over, nodding here and there to people who wanted to be seen saying hello to him. Cuthbert stood up, and they shook hands.
“So kind of you to come,” Cuthbert said as they sat down.
“Not a bit. Good lunch, good company—an excuse to drop in on the governor, now I’m in Central.” He smiled. Cuthbert smiled back, giving the corners of his mouth a slightly humble downturn to acknowledge the subtle assertion of rank. Only the chief had the right to “drop in” on the governor; lesser mortals, the political adviser, for example, needed appointments.
They both ordered Bloody Marys. Cuthbert sipped his while Grant chewed for a moment on the stick of celery that came with it. Cuthbert adapted to his guest’s military time scale. With a fellow diplomat he probably would not have come to business until the cheese course; with Grant it was important not to lose the general’s interest. Even the best soldiers tended to be cursed with an abbreviated attention span. On the other hand, it would be a mistake to plunge in like an amateur. They talked about people they knew, cocktail parties they had both recently attended, the state of the governor’s yacht, troop movements in southern China, cricket scores. Cuthbert came to the point when the chief finished his Bloody Mary, said “ah” loudly and let the coversation lapse.
“I asked you to lunch, General, because I thought we might discuss a new development in that business with the trunk.”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you heard that Chief Inspector Chan is making progress?”
“So I’m told. Damned good man, Chan, from what I hear.”
“First-class. As you know, it’s possible that he can lead us to the
couriers. They’re hiding somewhere in the western New Territories, it seems, according to his main informant. Assuming his informant is right, of course.”
“Quite.”
“The commissioner of police wanted to go in with his own unit, but I overruled him. His men are first-class, of course, SAS-trained, but they don’t have—how shall I say?—the international experience. Or quite the same kind of loyalties, if you see what I mean.”
Grant gave a quick nod. “I know. Tsui’s hopping mad about it, but you’ve persuaded the governor to recommend SAS from the UK.”
“Subject to your approval of course, General.”
“I’ve given it. Memo went out this morning. In fact I had them take a military flight last night, pending my final decision. They’ll be landing this afternoon.”
“Yes. The governor’s secretary told me just before I came to lunch. It’s the way the army handles the affair that I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Ah! Well, we can discuss. Nothing wrong with that. But I suspect the boys in the field will want maximum freedom of action. You know how it is, the men on the ground have to have the final word in how to manage an operation. Not that it’s likely to be especially difficult, as far as I can see.”
Grant raised his eyebrows to let Cuthbert know he was genuinely puzzled by the diplomat’s concern.
“Not difficult operationally. While they’re thought to be well armed—automatic pistols of some kind and possibly heavier weapons—they’re not professional soldiers. Diplomatically, though, it’s just a little tricky.” Grant shrugged: not his problem. “I mean, the nature of what was found in the trunk is still top secret.”
“And shall remain so if I have anything to do with it.”
“Quite.” Grant gave Cuthbert an impatient soldierly stare. “Which is why I didn’t want the police involved.” Cuthbert continued. “There would be a trial of course. Defense lawyers et cetera. Probably impossible to keep out the China dimension. London will be furious. I mean, you can imagine what the press will
say: atomic threat by unreconstructed renegade Communist cadres against six million people to whom we still owe protection. Military protection.”
Grant nodded. “Thought of that. Can’t see how the hell it can be avoided except through an Official Secrets Act sort of trial—in camera, as they do with spies.”
“Not so easy, I’m afraid. Nobody involved has signed the Official Secrets Act. The three suspects are American citizens according to the New York Police Department. You know how the Americans can be about anyone else’s breach of democratic principles. The CIA can literally get away with murder, but Singapore can’t cane a young American yob’s backside without an international uproar.”
Grant toyed with his hors d’oeuvres. He seemed to be concentrating hard, riding a train of thought. Finally he raised his head to look Cuthbert full in the face.
“I won’t stand in your way, but it’s not the sort of order I can give.”
“Of course not, General.”
“I’ll let you talk to the men. But I warn you, they’ll want a lot of reassurance that it won’t be another Gibraltar. And you’ll have to convince them that it’s necessary.”
Cuthbert smiled. “I’m most grateful, General.” On seeing the sommelier approach again, he added, “White or red?”
“I’m having fish this time.”
“Chablis then?”
Grant nodded, returned to the last of his hors d’oeuvres. One thing you had to give diplomats credit for: You never had to be explicit. God only knew how they ever managed to do something simple and direct, though. While Cuthbert tasted the Chablis, the commander in chief thought up a joke to tell the governor later: How many diplomats does it take to change a lightbulb? Twenty. One to change the bulb, nineteen to record the international implications. Chris would like that.
• • •
Cuthbert found out when the military flight was due to land and sent two cars to pick the men up. Of the five, four would be dropped at their quarters in Stanley, and the last, the most senior, was to be brought direct to Cuthbert’s office. The political adviser was still debating what tack to use when his secretary showed Major Fairgood in. Cuthbert shook hands with a stereotype: fit as an athlete with something lethal around the eyes; square jaws with lean cheeks in which a single furrow had been plowed from cheekbone to just behind the mouth. Cuthbert saw the suspicion that soldiers habitually feel toward diplomats. In Fairgood’s case it took the form of an almost theatrical squinting combined with a disdainful twitch of the nose.
Cuthbert invited the soldier to sit at the long table in his anteroom.
“Good of you to see me. I do apologize for taking up your time when you must want to be settling in.”
“No problem. Not a complex job as far as I can see. Not a lot of settling in to do. We’ll be done this time tomorrow, I expect.”
“Quite. That’s rather what I wanted to discuss. I don’t know if the commander in chief has spoken to you?”
“No, how could he?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Something came over the radio, though, while we were in the air. It doesn’t take much to guess what you want.”
“Ah!”
“But it can’t be done. You must have heard about Gibraltar?”
“Yes indeed.”
“That was orders. Between you and me.”
“If I remember correctly, some known Irish Republican Army assassins were, er, killed by SAS men. The IRA had a car full of explosives but were themselves unarmed.”
“Someone very senior thought it would be nice if those particular IRA terrorists never had to stand trial. They never reckoned for the media frenzy. A bloody trial for manslaughter in Gib—SAS men! We’re never supposed to see the light of day. Bloody fiasco.
Some of the blokes nearly resigned. Men like you are supposed to keep us out of politics—and the newspapers. And the courts, especially the courts.”
“I absolutely agree.”
“Now there’s an appeal to the European Court at Strasbourg by families of the IRA bastards we shot. It never ends, that sort of thing.”
“Quite.”
Cuthbert took out his silver cigarette case, which he offered to Fairgood, whose fuse seemed to have burned itself out. To his surprise the superfit major accepted it gratefully.
“Of course, if circumstances were different,” Cuthbert said, “and if there were good reason …”
“It would take more than a ten-minute chat with a diplomat to convince me to risk putting my men through that, I can tell you.”
Cuthbert smiled through the tobacco smoke. “Well, let me confess, Major, I don’t blame you. I’m deeply grateful that you came to see me, and I shan’t attempt to persuade you further. You realize that it was my duty to try—in the interests of national security, of course.”
Suprised at being let off the hook so easily, Fairgood coughed on an inhalation. He stared at Cuthbert for a moment, then inhaled deeply. “You’re doing your job, I can see that. And I’m doing mine.”
The diplomat noticed a change in posture. Fairgood stretched his legs under the table, leaned back in the chair. For the first time since entering the room he seemed relaxed.
“Right then,” Fairgood said. His eyes flicked over the room before settling on the window. “Good view.”
“One of the best. Let me show you.”
Fairgood stood up with Cuthbert and went to the window. “There’s the airport runway; that’s a Cathay flight taking off. Just behind, d’you see? the hills of Kowloon. And behind them, China.”
Fairgood took it all in as if studying a battlefield. “Yes, that must be right. One knows how close it is, but one doesn’t quite take it
in until one arrives on the ground. They say that all the really big disasters of the next hundred years will probably be caused by China.”
He smiled without warmth, finished his cigarette slowly, went back to the table to find an ashtray, drummed thoughtfully on the top.
“Just out of interest, why?”
“Partly because if there’s a trial, there’ll be a huge bloody public row, partly because it will jeopardize relations between China and Hong Kong and partly, I confess, a measure of personal sentiment.”
“Really?”
“Radiation sickness is horrifying. There’s no other word for it.”
“Yes, I heard something about that. No danger for my chaps, I hope?”
“None at all as far as I can gather. The damnable part, though, is that these three will probably get off. There’s only circumstantial evidence to link them to the uranium.”
“Get off?”
“Murder. Look, just as background, let me show you something.”
Cuthbert went to his office and returned with some photographs. He began with the two divers in the hospital. Higgins he saved to last. He watched Fairgood dwell on that one: an Englishman, a white man, fair-skinned, about his age, his body bloated and distorted like some monstrous sea creature. Fairgood nodded slowly, whistled.
“I see.” He raised his eyes. Cuthbert’s stratagem was pretty crude after all. “Well, I’d better be going.”
“Of course,” Cuthbert said. “Take the pictures if you like. Your men might want to know the kind of people they’re dealing with.”
Fairgood nodded again. “Just the one will do.” He picked up the picture of Higgins, slid it into a pocket.
On his way out Fairgood said: “Even if the men were sympathetic, which is by no means certain, there would have to be a cast-iron guarantee of no publicity and no repercussions—especially not legal ones. Cast-iron.”
Cuthbert smiled again. “This isn’t Gibraltar, Major. On important issues the media do as we tell them over here. And these three are supposed to be dead already.” Fairgood raised his eyebrows. “You have my word,” Cuthbert said.
They shook hands at the door.
50
T
hey. In Chan’s dream
they
can change shape, race, sex;
they
can even manifest as animals or spirits. He has seen them pass through walls; no matter how fast he runs, they are by his side, one step to the left and half a step behind. In some legends from ancient Chinese sorcery, death approaches from the left too. Are
they
fundamentally Chinese? At first he thought so. Little by little, though, they acquired some British attributes; one of them even appeared with a red face and a monocle. They stalk him. When he can stand it no longer, he turns to face them, daring them to kill him. They seem baffled by such behavior. He turns away; they resume their positions by his side, half a step behind. It’s not exactly a nightmare, not even a dream, because when he wakes, they are still there. The explanation is simple. He is going insane.
He knows why. He saw it on the face of Chief Inspector Jack Siu. Brushing past other senior officers in the corridors of Mongkok Police Station and even more so at Arsenal Street, he notices a change in manner, a subtle distaste that they try to hide. Little by little it has filtered down to the lower levels. When the rumor, whatever it is, reaches inspector level, they will pounce. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you. Two days after Emily’s body was found he felt the atmosphere like a glass wall between him and the other officers. As he entered the police station, faces averted, then stole glances after him. In his office Aston wouldn’t look up when he entered.